by Karen Hildebrand

A white utility truck pulls to the curb,
stiff as a nun in her wimple, its crane
lobbing a man into the air to clip
branches that fondle the wires.
To the delight of this city dweller,
a green tractor crawls up hitched
to eight spirals of hay. The moment these
behemoths cross paths, a sinkhole opens.
Anything is possible. I am my country
cousin, simmering broth, musk of fresh
love rising. At dusk, Mia and Pearl
prick up their ears when I call them in,
low light silvering their fur. Little
bobcats, they gallop to me, wild.

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Karen Hildebrand is the author of Crossing Pleasure Avenue (Indolent Books). Recent poems appear or are forthcoming in Braving the Body (Harbor Editions), LEON, Mom Egg Review, Scoundrel Time, Southern Poetry Review, Trailer Park Quarterly, Maintenant 18, and Beacon Radiant (great weather for MEDIA). Her writing on dance appears in Fjord Review and The Brooklyn Rail and she has hosted podcast episodes for Jacob’s Pillow Dance Festival. Originally from Colorado, she lives in Brooklyn.